Irrational

I hate the word "widow," but now that I am one, I'm having irrational thoughts. Most of them angry. Maybe I'm entited, maybe not.

For example, as irrational as this may sound, it really pisses me off when people say things like "Mike's death really makes me realize how short life is and how I need to live every day to the fullest." I know people mean well. But you know what I think? I think, good, good for you, you go have a wonderful life, hug your husband tight, live happily ever after, yay for you. Meanwhile, Julia and I will just go to bed alone tonight with huge holes in our hearts. You, go, live it up. Glad Mike's death was good for something.

I've become an unkind person. But it's just how I feel.

And when I read recently about another young widow who was taken to the ER because she was catatonic, found completely unresponsive outside a coffee shop, instead of feeling sympathetic, I felt jealous. I told you -- irrational. This woman has two young children. I have one. How did she get the luxury of being catatonic? I sure wouldn't mind being completely unable to respond to the world around me for a little bit. To not have to think or do or speak. Just for a while. But I can't. I have to keep going and taking care of my daughter. Maybe I don't really want to be catatonic. But I wouldn't mind a whole day in bed. Alone. I haven't been able to do that in the 16 months since Mike died.

And more irrational thinking -- my goodness, did I not love Mike enough? I didn't love him enough that losing him left me catatonic at a Starbucks. This other woman loved her husband so much that losing him made her break with reality. Am I doing this wrong?

I hope Mike understands. I have to keep going. Keep moving. Keep taking care of our daughter and attempt to take care of myself.

Levon

I haven't been able to listen to "Levon" since Mike died. One note takes me back to the darkest hours I've ever known and hope I will ever know.

After the dust settled with the doctors and after the decision was made not to put Mike on life support, I had a chance to sit alone with him in the ICU. I was dressed in a yellow gown with gloves and a mask. He was asleep, or more likely nearly comatose, in the bed beside me. I held his hand. I listened to his labored breathing. I was watching him die.

I thought he would appreciate some music. Mike loved good music. We had made a playlist of songs not too long before. His favorite was Elton John's "Levon." I can still see him singing and drumming on the steering wheel. I turned on my iPod and the room filled with music.

Mike turned his head and opened his eyes. It would be the last time. Several hours later, he died.

Any time I would hear it on the radio, I would have to immediately change the channel. It made me feel like I was sitting in that room.

Fast forward 15 months.

It is a beautiful day, almost fall. Sunny, breezy, 72 degrees. Julia and I go to the park. We played on the playground. We sat by the pond and watched the ducks. We put a blanket in the grass under a tree and read five "Curious George" books. It was a perfect afternoon. I snapped the picture at the top so I would remember it.

But soon it was time to go home. Mine and Julia's lovely day had come to an end. We put the blanket in the trunk and got in the car.

I turned the key and the music started playing. It was "Levon."

But this time I didn't have the instinct to change the station. A feeling washed over me. This sounds nuts, but it was like a message from Mike. That he is watching over us. That he was with us. That he was part of our perfect afternoon. Even if it was just by playing his favorite song.

I turned it up and sang at the top of my lungs.

Overwhelmed

You would think that after one year, three months and one day, I would start finding my own groove, learn how to handle things on my own. But I'm not. I'm overwhelmed. Overwhelmed with worry. Overwhelmed with stress. Overwhelmed with life.

Julia's left eye is doing a weird thing. I'm petrified she has a brain tumor.

I made a couple mistakes at work. I'm terrified I'm going to lose my job.

I went back to school. I'm fretting I've taken on too much.

Julia cries some days about having to go to school. I ache for her.

I started to like someone. I am incapable of moving forward.

I feel so alone. I feel overwhelmed.

Talking about Mike

I was talking with a friend at a party recently. We were talking about Mike. She grew up with him and we were just standing there, sharing a few stories. Nothing I can specifically remember. Just Mike.

And it was so nice.

My friend lost her daughter to cancer several years ago. She told me she wanted to talk to me about Mike because she knew that other people were afraid to bring him up. It's true. I guess it happens after someone dies. They fear saying his name in front of me will send me into a sobbing, snotty heap on the floor.

It won't. I love talking about Mike. It makes me feel close to him. It brings him into the present. And I want nothing more than for Mike to be in my present.

My year of magical thinking

I just re-read Joan Didion's "Year of Magical Thinking" and realized I've had some of my own "magical" thoughts this year. Didion writes about how she can't give away her dead husband's clothes because he'll need them when he comes back. She can't move because her husband won't know where to find her when he comes back.

I haven't really indulged in thoughts of Mike coming back, but I was overcome by a strange feeling at a restaurant recently. I was having dinner at a place on the beach where Mike and I once ate. Then, it was a cold winter day in Florida. It was raining and we had just gone out for a drive along the coast. Julia was just over a year old. We stopped for a bite to eat. I remember running through the parking lot because it was so cold. We hurried inside and got a table and ended up eating the best lobster bisque. The inside of the restaurant was kind of dark with kitschy beach stuff on the walls. It was warm though. I didn't want to leave.

The other day, I was with someone else. Julia was there. We sat outside on a deck, shielded from the hot Florida sun. I could see the door that led to the inside. It was kind of dark with kitschy beach stuff on the walls. I couldn't stop staring every time it opened. If I walked through, out of the sun, would my old life be waiting for me? Would Mike and Julia be sitting at the table waiting for me, as if I had just gotten up to go to the bathroom? If we went out the front door would it be cold and rainy? Would we have to hurry to the car?

I could see it so vividly. The door was pulling me in. I wanted to go and see. But I knew I would just be disappointed. I had to stay focused. My old life was not on the other side of that door. No matter how bad I wanted. No matter how much magical thinking I did.

One year ago

Dear Michael,

It’s been 365 days since you died. Three hundred sixty-five days since I saw your face. Three hundred sixty-five days since I sat next to you, holding your hand, listening as the time between your breaths got longer and longer. Three hundred sixty-five days since I leaned in and told you I loved you, promised you I would take good care of our baby girl and that it was OK for you to let go; you didn’t have to fight anymore.

I wish I could tell you in all those days that things have gotten easier, but I still miss you all the time. I miss you when I see something funny and want to tell you about it. I miss you when I walk into a dark, empty house. I liked it when you would wait up for me at night. I miss you on holidays. They have been so hollow, sort of pathetic, really. I miss you when Julia is wearing me out and I feel like a bad parent and I have no one to tell me that it’s going to be OK, that I’m doing the right thing. Or if I’m doing the wrong thing, no one is here to tell me what’s right. I miss you when my friends complain about their relationships, because even though I liked to bitch about you never once turning on our dishwasher, you really were a good husband. You loved and honored me as your wife, and as the mother of your child, and you never once spoke disrespectfully to me, even though I’m sure I deserved it on more than one occasion.

And speaking of my annoyance with your lack of household help, I see now what contributions you made to our family. So I miss you when I’m pushing the lawnmower up the damn hill and taking the car in to get the oil changed and paying the bills.

Sometimes I’ll come across something, like your handwriting or a photo, and it will literally take my breath away. I got my West Virginia license plate and on one side is the number 5, the other side, 30. Your birthday: 5/30. I like it. Feels like you’re with me. Other times, I feel a physical emptiness, a hole in my chest. I feel incomplete.

But when I think about you, I think about how you were full of life. You loved life. You were larger than life.

I envision you sitting at the Anchor, everyone gathered around, cracking up at whatever you were saying. And I felt so happy being the girl sitting next to you. The girl who got to go home with you.

And I know that you would want me to live life. To teach our girl to live life. To love life. To get on with life.

It scares me a little bit, because to let go of the pain would, in a way, be like letting go of you. But I will never let go of you. I’m working on separating the two. I’m trying to push those memories of you so sick, struggling to breathe, out of my mind. But oh, do they haunt me…

I want to remember the you who still ate the key lime pie I baked for you, even after I dropped it on the floor, because you didn’t want me to cry. The you who took me out for a drive in your car with the top down on a Sunday afternoon. The you who saved the cork from that bottle of wine we were drinking the first night we kissed. I still have it, by the way.

I want to remember you kissing Julia’s belly while she squealed with delight. And watching Eagles games with her. And pushing her around the neighborhood in the stroller.

Oh, if you could see our girl now. You were always so eager to watch her grow and learn and discover new things, while I was the one who wanted her to stay a cute, cuddly baby. You would be beaming right now. She just finished her first year of preschool. She spent weeks watching caterpillars turn into butterflies. She can put together 100-piece jigsaw puzzles by herself. She’s finally starting to pedal on her bike and can successfully blow a bubble. And on this very day, she’s taking her first tennis lesson. I have to admit, it is pretty cool.

She’s not into dolls or really girly things. She still likes books. She sneaks them into her bed at night. It reminds me of how you told me you used to go to bed with a radio to listen to Phillies games. She still eats blueberry Eggos and vanilla yogurt every single day for breakfast and still can’t drink through a straw.

She can still test my patience, wear me out and get on my last nerve. The whining and yelling. Oh God, the whining and yelling. But we’re working on it. I’m trying to teach her to be a proper young lady. She’s so smart. And funny. And beautiful. But you already know that.

Thank you for giving her to me.

I feel like I haven’t been the best mother to her this past year. I’ve been distant, in a fog. But I want to snap out of it, and I know you would want me to snap out of it. You would want me to live. So I’m going to try. And I hope you’ll watch over us and maybe point us in the right direction. We’ll try not to disappoint. And I hope you know that you’re always with us. Always.

Love, C

An honor for Mike

We went to Florida last week for a tennis tournament. As a sportswriter, one of Mike's duties every year was to cover the MIMA Foundation USTA Pro Tennis Classic. It was one of the things he liked about his job. It seems he made an impact on them as well. They named one of the competitions after him: the "Mike Cherry High School Skills Challenge."

Lisa, Madison, Julia and I attended the award ceremony. It was very nice. Such an honor. But also a little more emotional than any of us expected. As we get close to the one-year anniversary of his death, I'm starting to worry that I haven't really grieved. At least not properly. And I'm scared it's going to catch up to me.

For one, I don't have time to stay in bed and cry. I have a 4-year-old who needs to be fed, dressed and tended to. I have to do some work keep a roof over our heads. I have to clean and do laundry and yardwork. But also, I try to avoid situations that will really let me feel the pain. I haven't had more than a couple glasses of wine at one sitting in a year because I'm afraid of totally losing it and being one of those sobbing, hysterical drunks.

What I've just been doing this past year is moving. Moving. Moving. Moving. I don't sit still. It's all about constant distractions. This doesn't mean I don't think about Mike every second. And sometimes, something will stop me in my tracks and bring me to my knees. Like a few months ago, I came across his glasses and I was just standing there holding them in my hand. I started picturing them on his face and then I realized I couldn't remember which of his eyes was the lazy eye. He had one pupil that was a little lower than the other. It was barely noticeable. But I noticed. And now I can't picture it. And that was more than I could bear. Am I starting to forget?